Page 19

Chapter Nineteen

Cam

I roll up to the house after Jack has left, sprinting through to change and grab clothes for after practice.

Gym bag in hand, I head to the rink.

Jack greets me as I enter the locker room and says at top volume, “How was she?” I swear, he speaks at volume eleven on purpose all the damn time.

The guys’ heads whip around. “What? Prancer got some last night?”

“For sure he didn’t come home.” Jack is laughing.

I glare at him. “Wow. I’d say I’ll remember this for when you do something stupid, roommate, but as that’s a daily occurrence, I won’t bother.”

“Come on, Prancer. Share. Some of us didn’t get lucky, aside from our win,” Boulanger calls out.

“First, I’m sure Jack did. He’s deflecting. Second, if any of you didn’t, it’s by choice. I was at Chaser’s with you, and there were unlimited options.”

“Did you grab a bunny then?” Kyle asks.

I ignore them and change.

Behind me, someone whistles. “Jack, have you checked his phone? Maybe he’s on Tinder.”

Another says, “Why do you guys assume it was just one? Prancer here’s so flexible, he could handle at least two.”

I roll my eyes.

“Come on, Prancer.” Boulanger is almost whining. “Give us something. Blonde? Brunette? Wait, redhead! That’d be hot. Did the carpet match the curtains?”

“Shut the fuck up, Bakery Boy.” No one gets to talk smack about Christina even if they don’t know it’s her. He wants to be derogatory toward women, I’ll make sure he gets a new nickname based on his name. Fed up, I grab my skates and leave. I’ll put them on rinkside after I do some preliminary stretches. As I’m exiting, I hear du Près say, “Eh, ferme ta gueule, Boulanger. Laisse-le.” I’ve played with enough French-Canadians to know when someone is told to shut the fuck up and drop it. My respect for Mattie climbs up a notch. He and I are solid.

In goalie practice, Murphy is showing rapid improvement. That both scares and relieves me. While I don’t want a threat to my starting role, the team needs to be in safe hands for the games I don’t play.

The coaches then have us in net for more drills with the offensive lines.

Back in the locker room, Coach Steele breaks down what he saw. “Petrovsky, Dunbar, Gauthier. Work on your player awareness. Know where your teammates are to pass to them, and know where the enemy is in case he’s sneaking up behind you. Same thing to the third line. We’ll work on that tomorrow. Hill, Murphy, Wayman, I need a full day with you for the lines to practice shooting on you. I’ve already cleared it with Coach Murray.”

The next morning as planned, we’re on the ice with the second and third lines. A goalie sees everything, and his job is to warn his teammates about on-ice threats as well as ensure they help him protect the goal. Coach’s words yesterday emphasized that part of my job. So when the other team is coming at me, I call, “Behind,” or “Look for the pass.”

Their responses get steadily more acerbic and a few of them start getting sloppier with passes and shots, rather than cleaner.

Finally, Petrovsky skates right up to me so we’re nearly touching when I straighten out of my crouch. He points to the coaches. “See them, Prancer? They are the coaches. See this?—” he points to the goal—“This is the goal. You are the goalie. Not a coach. Stay the fuck out of my business.”

He breaks his stick over the crossbar, and tosses it at my feet, then storms off the ice.

Shit . What the hell kind of goalie has he played with in the past? We’re a new team, but we still need to help each other, and my words may have been critical, but we’re all on the same side for the actual games.

We’re dismissed for a lunch break. The locker room is quiet and most guys opt to eat onsite. I sort of hope for Saint to step in and say something as captain to clear up my confusion, whether he backs me up or tells me to shut up. When he doesn’t, I shower quickly and run out for a smoothie. I need space to try to get my head on straight, and they need a cool-down period.

I trust every single one of them to do their best work out there, to review game tape, and then to improve their best. But they don’t seem to trust me. We’re such a new team, I guess I understand. It’s going to kill me to bite my tongue and not point out improvements that would make us a better team, but I guess that’s what I need to do.

I’m trying not to wallow. Hockey has been my go-to family since my mother died. Without this team around me, I’d be lost. I flashback to being in my house with my father, then imagine Petrovsky speaking in Czech to me. I’m an island, alone in the ocean of this new world.

Goalies are always a little separate from the other players. But every single practice and game has felt like a team sport, with every player contributing their unique skill set.

I need this game, this job. And now, with Christina in the mix, and Jack and a few friendships I’ve started to build with players, I want this city. As I pull into the player parking area, I’m determined to do what I need to in order to remain a part of the team. I’ll back off, stay quiet, and simply play the net as Petrovsky asked.

Back in the locker room, Saint checks in with me. “You good?”

I lift my chin. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He wisely chooses not to use Petrovsky’s nickname of “Quasi” that I caused. “Petrovsky?”

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“Then let’s play.”

On the ice, I practically chew a hole through my mouthguard staying quiet. Petrovsky glares at me every time he’s in blue paint. His shots on goal might be harder and faster than during games. I manage to avoid flinching when they hit my pads.

He still doesn’t get one past me, though, nor do any of the second and third line players. There’s some satisfaction to that, until I question whether they’ll stay angry at me because of it. Hopefully the road trip will improve camaraderie.